


Boucles

by enterprisecaptainoikawa, kingdavidbowie



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Hair Stylist AU, M/M, Will is a nature geek, first meeting AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 11:37:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4018282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enterprisecaptainoikawa/pseuds/enterprisecaptainoikawa, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingdavidbowie/pseuds/kingdavidbowie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So maybe he’s hoping he can catch a date out of this, as irrational as the thought is. Hannibal is probably like this with all of his customers. Will can only imagine the tips the man gets. He himself would gladly hand over a kidney to schedule another appointment. </p><p>He probably won’t say that when he’s on his way out, though, just in case he’s still managed to maintain his cool facade of lovely curls and a mysterious job working for a government agency.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boucles

God, Will hates getting his hair cut.

It’s not that he’s touchy about people feeling up his hair or anything. In fact, he doesn’t really mind that bit of it at all. It can feel kind of nice—fingertips lingering at the base of his skull, the press of a buzzing razor at the back of his neck, fingers gently tugging at his curls. He's been in worse situations than that.  _Much_ worse, really.

He bristles as he walks inside the salon, though, with the rest of the experience on his mind. He hates the ceaseless small talk, the tinny pop music playing in the background like he’s supposed to be a character in a cheesy rom-com getting a makeover or something. He doesn’t ever have the heart to ask the stylist to _please just stop talking_ about their children and the weather because _he just wants to have his hair cut in peaceful,_ _quiet solitude_ , but damned if he doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t want to be an asshole, but there’s something about coming back from a crime scene only to have people small talking him about the weather that makes him feel like flies are buzzing around his ears, even if the stylist is, like him, relatively taciturn. 

The woman sitting at the desk in front has hair the color of copper, shaped in tight ringlets that make Will think of coiled wires. To her raised, waiting eyebrows, he says, “I have an appointment with Hannibal Lecter for six o’clock. For a haircut,” he adds, because his wording seems too vague. What sort of appointment? Doctor? Accountant? Psychiatrist? He's overthinking it, yeah, but it's just three words, at least, and not a soliloquy.

“Yep,” the receptionist says after a moment, her fingers clacking away at the keys of a laptop even as she speaks. “He should be right out. You can wait right there.” She waves a hand in the direction of some stylish-looking chairs pushed against the wall. He sits in the one closest to the door, although it only gives him a minuscule amount of extra comfort.

To prevent his mind from traipsing over to the land of murders and corpses, he looks through the magazines and hardcover books of hairstyles stacked on a table next to him. The celebrity articles about babies and gay rumors seem trivial in comparison to FBI work, and after a few minutes of looking through books that mostly feature women’s haircuts he’s just staring at barely distinguishable blurs of brunette, blonde, black and red. His mind is faintly spinning when he hears someone say his name.

"Will?"

Hannibal’s voice seems out of place at first to Will, an easy baritone standing out from the tinny pop music, the snips of scissors and the rest of the conversation-smart stylists on the floor. It’s a nearly perfect mix of the neutral timbre of a field agent and the amiable tone of a doctor, and it almost doesn’t even make Will want to run away mumbling to himself about how he’ll just let his hair grow out, thank you very much, maybe start using ponytails…

He suggested the idea to Alana once, actually. Regrettably, she just gave him Hannibal Lecter’s card instead, saying Will might like him. Will had tried not to scoff at that. He’s not exactly the type of guy to start talking to his _barber_ and make a friend. Maybe he’d look cool with longer hair, bangs falling in front of his eyes—it’s a little teenage pop star, admittedly, but the prospect of a ready curtain to shield his eyes from the rest of the world and all its crap doesn’t actually sound half bad, he thinks. Unfortunately, Alana only smiled at that comment and dialed the salon’s number into her phone and handed it to him. So, he’s here.

At least Hannibal has nice-looking hands. If they’re going to be the things feeling up Will’s hair, he appreciates the clean look to them. More than that, they look sure of themselves, like they’re not about to butcher Will’s curls into pieces. He's thankful for that, too.

“That would be me,” Will says as he gets up, and notes how Hannibal pretends not to notice that he’s taken a solid ten seconds of staring off into some false distance before speaking up. The man’s expression is neither busy nor irritated—if anything, it’s a flawless mask of expert professional intention, with maybe a hint of a twinkle to his dark eyes. Will frowns a little at his inability to see past it, and avoids looking the man in the eye as he leads them over to one of the stations and sits Will down in a chair.

Hannibal pulls out a swath of black nylon with just a tinge more grandeur than necessary, and Will finds himself drawn to the motion. His lips feel compelled to smile—they don’t, but the feeling is there, all the same. The stylist doesn’t say anything, and maybe that’s it—Will expects the small talk to start bubbling up any second. When it doesn’t, he just stares at Hannibal, who buttons the fabric around Will’s neck with deft, experienced fingers. He’s so _urbane_ , Will thinks. The hint of a dramatist behind the man's mask of a face only draws him in further. Not normal for him, but he's not normal, either, so maybe it balances out.

The man's hands still at Will’s neck, patient like before. “So what were you thinking of having done?” he asks, meeting Will’s eyes in the mirror. Will makes a point of looking at the man’s hair and not his eyes, and it’s probably the reason he fucks up as soon as he opens his mouth.

“Your hair looks like it would make a really comfortable nest for birds,” he says, then realizes he’s said that out loud. “I mean. Just an inch or two off, nothing… big…” Shit. “Could you forget I said that?” he asks, his face reddening. He can see it in the mirror.

Hannibal only looks a little bemused, though. Kind of in a dick way, but Will’s too busy hating his awkward social skills to get properly annoyed. And besides, he’s too tired for it.

“It’s been a long day,” he says in an attempt to fix it all, trying not to grimace at his reflection looking back at him from the mirror.

“Understandable,” says Hannibal. “And thank you.” He smiles at Will himself this time, and not the mirror, and Will can’t decide if it’s a real one or not. He’s not sure what constitutes a smile as real in the first place.

“We can do an inch or two,” the stylist agrees, fluffing at Will’s hair a little on the sides, examining it with all the ostensible technicality of a doctor. Withdrawing his hands, he says, “If you’ll come with me, I’ll wash your hair, if you’d like.”

 _So this is one of_ those _places_ , Will thinks, already brainstorming how he’ll get back at Alana for shoving him into this appointment. He won’t be able to get in and out of the place in a nice ten minutes and then fly home to lament his shitty interpersonal intelligence over a bowl of ice cream while watching the discovery channel, for sure. Maybe it’s for the best. His hair is messy at best, at worst, flecked with bits of dried blood or the dead skin cells of murder victims. Today, he’s somewhere in the middle, and he wouldn’t blame Hannibal for wanting to push Will right back out the door he came in.

So he nods, and follows the man over to one of several sinks lining the back wall of the salon. Hannibal gestures for him to sit and drapes a red towel around his neck. He only speaks to tell Will to lean back, and is equally reticent as he turns on the tap and tests the water temperature.

Will waits another moment, then goes, “My usual answers to the questions are yes, the weather is shit, no, I don’t have kids, and I’m not sure, my job’s sort of messed up most of the time but I kind of like it anyway. Since you haven’t asked.” He’s not sure what impels him to say that, considering his disdain for all the other times he’s had the answers pulled out from his skull along with his hair. But he doesn’t regret it, either.

Hannibal smiles again, a barely tangible thing, and asks if he can remove Will’s glasses.

“Sure, it’s fine.”

The man starts kneading Will’s hair with warm water and his adept, amiable palms. “It’s not raining anymore,” he points out, his voice smooth and thoughtful. “I don’t have a family, either. And you know what I do for a living, of course.”

God, the man has nice hands. Will doesn’t bother replying, and it’s not even because it’d require talking. Hannibal is some sort of fucking massage therapist in his down time, or something, because his fingertips are just grazing Will’s skull and sending him into a state of utter bliss all the same. It’s like he’s found the switch that turns on Will’s nightmares and turned it in the opposite direction.

He realizes that Alana was right about him liking Hannibal, him and his well-mannered, non-annoying, amiable self, and he’d go on for litanies of complaints about it in his head except that with the man’s hands in his hair, now frothing with scented shampoo, his mind is blissfully, tranquilly blank. It’s a rare feeling for him, and he opts to enjoy it while it lasts.

Hannibal towel-dries Will’s hair after it's washed and then leads him back to his station. He doesn’t even destroy the silence of their little corner with spare words, just lets Will continue on through his adventure of a haircut experience in unadulterated serenity, and Will wants to mumble his eternal thanks, he has so much damn gratitude. _It’s only been five minutes,_ he realizes when he glances down at his watch. And he actually _wants_ to talk to his barber, which is… weird, to say the least, for him. He can just picture Alana sitting next to him, a laughing smile on her lips and that strong, I-told-you-so look to her eyes.

Will appreciates her, and probably doesn’t thank her nearly enough for keeping him together. He’ll have to get her a fruit basket or something on his way home and bring it into work tomorrow morning. A bookstore gift card and a cup of coffee might be more appreciated and less awkward, on second thought. _On the way home,_ he decides.

He can hear Hannibal snipping at his hair with quick, smart movements of his scissors. It’s only when he looks up at the mirror from the floor that he remembers he doesn’t have his glasses on, and remembers the other reason why he has such an intense dislike of haircuts. He can’t see distance for shit without his glasses, despite the fact that only a few feet separate him and the mirror. For all he knows, someone could cut off half his hair in one fell swoop of a blade, and he’d only realize if the chopped-off piece fell into his lap.

 _Please be careful,_ he prays to his stylist, attempting to communicate his earnestness through some off brand of mental telepathy. But there’s something in Hannibal’s manner that assures Will that it’ll be alright in any case, and he finds himself trusting in that despite his idiosyncratic paranoia. It’s uncharacteristic of him, but he finds that the feeling fits him, anyway.

“You have lovely curls,” Hannibal says quietly after a few more minutes of silence that only further endears him to Will. The odd thing, though, is that his words have nearly the same effect.

That’s one he’s gotten before, but when it’s coming from Hannibal’s lips, Will doesn’t mind the repetition one bit.

“Thanks.” He tries to sound kind.

“So tell me, what _do_ you do for a living?” the man asks.

Will laughs lightly. “We’ve gotten to the small talk bit, haven’t we?”

“Do you mind?”

“To be honest,” he admits, “I don’t. I work with the FBI in behavioral analysis.” He doesn’t mention that he’s only a special agent, more of a consulting guru on killers than an actual field agent. It gets messy when he tries to explain, and it’s not even that he doesn’t like to talk about work outside of work—it’s just damn hard to explain what he does in the first place. So he leaves it at that, and feels like he’s preening a little when he sees Hannibal lift his shadowy eyebrows, impressed. He doesn’t really care if he is, to be truthful.

So maybe he’s hoping he can catch a date out of this, as irrational as the thought is. Hannibal is probably like this with all of his customers. Will can only imagine the tips the man gets. He himself would gladly hand over a kidney to schedule another appointment.

He probably _won’t_ say that when he’s on his way out, though, just in case he’s still managed to maintain his cool facade of lovely curls and a mysterious job working for a government agency.

“Any plans for the holiday?” Hannibal asks, and Will has to remind himself that this is just small talk and not an invitation to spend Thanksgiving in the man’s bed. House, he means. _Same thing,_ he tells his brain. It’s not a very convincing lie.

“Working, if they need me. Otherwise, it’s just me and my dogs and the nature channel.” He pauses. “It’s relaxing,” he clarifies, somewhat defensive, but Hannibal looks unperturbed. If anything, he looks interested, but that _could_ just be how he looks while cutting hair.

“That sounds delightful,” he says. His words are close to Will’s ear, pleasantly so. The latter tries to slow his breathing so that it’s not up there with his rapidly accelerating heartbeat, and doesn’t do much good. Even if the symptoms were gone, the feeling’s still there. Suffice to say, he could kiss Alana Bloom for sending him to this man. Of course, he’d much rather kiss the man at this point.

It occurs to Will that he has become the cheesy rom-com main character that the tinny pop music had been preluding, and sadly enough, he has no regrets here, either. He takes a look at his wristwatch. Twenty minutes, it’s been. Dear lord, how far he’s fallen.

He gets an itch on the bridge of his nose and lifts a hand to fix it, but with the nylon fixed around him it’s difficult. Noticing this, Hannibal runs a nail across Will’s nose. He doesn't say anything. Will mumbles a thank you, and avoids the mirror again, because he’s pretty sure he would still see the red in his face in spite of his shitty vision.

After another minute Hannibal sets down the scissors and takes an electric razor out of a drawer, setting it, buzzing, to the nape of Will’s neck. Before, the stylist’s hands felt like ghosts, rustling around in his hair like wind. Now they’re more solid, stronger, and Will thinks for a moment that the man could choke him to death, so easily, by grabbing him around the neck. It’s an even more unreasonable idea than the sex thing, of course. He puts the thought down to too much work and too many antisocial tendencies, and forgets it a minute later.

Hannibal finishes by blowing Will’s hair into perfect, brunette waves with a hairdryer. “Allow me,” he says, and removes Will’s glasses from where they were tucked into his shirt so that he can place them on Will. Usually this would go abysmally wrong and Will would end up poked in the eye, but, as it figures, Hannibal is flawless in that, too.

Will stares at himself in the mirror. “I look pretty,” he mumbles, a crooked smile stretching his lips.

Hannibal smiles, too. “Naturally.” He unbuttons the nylon around Will’s neck and brushes off outlying hairs there and on his shoulders. “I trust this is satisfactory for you?” He's perfect. The only perfect people Will has ever met have been serial killers.

Will nods, already feeling the awkward flowing back into his system as he stands. “Thank you,” he says again, unable to think of anything more suave. 

“Would you like my card?” Hannibal asks. He’s already pulling one off the pile on the desk and handing it to Will, who takes it. _Naturally._

“Thanks.”

“Call me any time,” the man says, and it takes Will a minute to catch the meaning lacing his tone. He’s not gaping, he’s not gaping, he’s just—hell. He’s gaping. Screw it, he’s already messed up the facade thing, anyway. What else has he got to lose?

He meets Hannibal’s eyes, warm and dark and twinkling in the salon lighting. “I will,” he says, and the man winks.

How could he help but swoon on the inside?

**Author's Note:**

> boucles=curls


End file.
